Bonnaroo 2024 Friday | Jason's Journal

Friday

The sun is preying on us almost as soon as it makes its first appearance. I learned a lot of lessons last year, our first covering Bonnaroo. One being to make sure you have shade. I also brought along a fan. My circadian rhythm is pretty tuned to be up with the sun most of the time anyway. I head to the media tent, which is quite comfortable at Bonnaroo. Some festivals put you in a tailgate canopy with some spotty wifi. Bonnaroo makes sure there is plenty of Liquid Death on hand and an air conditioner blowing, which makes coverage easier on so many levels. 

I set out to finish my conversation with Alisa Amador which was recorded before the Grounded Summer Tour. This summer off from my day job as a teacher has been more creatively fruitful than any other in my life. I have been treating creative work as my full time job and it is paying off in ways I did not expect. 

A couple of episodes are in the can. My talk with Alisa as well as one I recorded with Drayton Farley at the wonderful - if very different - Laurel Cove Festival the previous weekend just need some light editing. Plus, we are due to record with Milky Chance on Sunday.   

Friday’s schedule is much more in my wheelhouse. This is where I need to remember my own advice. First, no FOMO. Second, pace thyself. 49 Winchester goes on at 2:00. Lead singer and principal songwriter Isaac Gibson was a guest on my podcast The Marinade a couple of years ago. We had one of those talks where Ieft an even bigger fan of the band than before we met. Somehow, their live show has evaded me and I am ready to remedy that today.

Isaac is a natural country rock and roll front man. He’s got the look, the swagger, and a little of the mystique. The day is young and festival goers are still arriving. I feel grateful I called things early last night. 49 Winchester is absolutely ripping apart the What Stage. Several 49 hats are visible, but there has to be a boat load of converts in this crowd. 

With due respect for what some of the cross over country stars have done - that sweet spot between country that appeals to the masses and good songwriting - many of the folks who are selling out stadiums don’t do it quite like 49 Winchester. Next time your buddy says he really isn’t into country music but he likes Zach Bryan, spin some tunes by Isaac and the boys.

FOMO check. Bonny Light Horseman kicks off right after the last note of 49 Winchester’s set. I know what I said earlier, but I’m not missing this set. A full hour of the boys from Virginia was good medicine. Let’s ride this wave. 

SShitty cell phone video of Bonny Light Horseman

Bonny Light Horseman is Anais Mitchell, Eric D. Johnson (Fruit Bats), and Josh Kaufman (Josh Ritter.) Supergroup is the term often used to describe the band on account of the success of the individual members apart from this project. Supergroup is a term that both encompasses the enormity of Bonny Light Horseman and skips over the special synergy of these souls. 

Anais Mitchell is a quasar. Even in such illustrious company she occupies the space in a way that makes everyone else present fall from relevance. This is the kind of set that reminds you to go to the show. 

I am tired. The heat is bleeding energy but the festival is giving life. Gary Clark, Jr. has a set on the way and I need to rest for a minute so as to be present for that. He’s an artist I’ve loved for years but somehow have yet to see. 

At some point one wakes up and finds that artists they’ve followed for much of their lives have been at it for a couple of decades. The realization is shocking but necessary.

I have no idea what Gary Clark, Jr. sounded like live in 2000 whatever year he sang “You gonna know my name by the end of the night” which he’s doing right now. Right now he sounds like the coolest mother fucker on the planet. Looks like it too. 

But I need shade. Faye Webster is a name I sort of know. She’s playing in the “That Tent” and providing a respite from the sun. And she is slaying her set. 

This is why we go to festivals. Megan Thee Stallion still has a set on the way. Red Hot Chili Peppers. Post Malone. Yet, Faye Webster has a hold on me. 

Back at camp resting for a few before Khrauangbin and Interpol I meet my camp neighbors. People make a festival. Live music is always going to hit. The moments of connection with fellow music lovers. Organic discoveries go beyond sonic scapes on The Farm. 

I have two sets left in me and one of those is a bucket list opportunity. Khraungbin would be a set I must consume in full with most conflicts. On this day, I have to see Interpol. Interpol is a late-twenties band for me. That period of life where you are hyper in tune with new experiences and music is near the center of your universe. 

In my twenties there was a culture of blogs writing about and sharing music. Each generation has its ways of spreading the word. For us there were some very cool websites. Social media was still young so you had to pick the right spot, which surprisingly kept us out of lanes. I think of eMusic, No Depression, and Blender as examples of spaces that turned me on to new stuff. In one of those places I learned about Interpol. 

shitty cell phone photo of Interpol

They were singing about things that felt so far from my existence yet hit for me. I was swimming in the feeling of being hit by new sensations and that’s the state I find myself in now. 

It’s a bit of a slow start that almost immediately shifts to the kind of groove Paul Banks and the boys achieve on record. When you wait this long to see a band, it’s natural to be patient with the results. I’m probably being generous with my assessment, but there’s no question this is my favorite set of the weekend thus far. 

Might be nostalgia. Might be the moment. I’m here either way and it is a special experience. 

The evening is full of big sets but I need to be in Nashville tomorrow to pick up my love. And I can’t wait. She has never been to a camping festival. Introducing someone to that magic is priceless. Post Malone is about to play. T-Pain. The Mars Volta! Thundercat! I remind myself of the big maxim. No FOMO. Gotta get some sleep to make the most of the next two days.

Bonnaroo 2024 Saturday | Jason's Journal

Saturday

By: Jason Earle

I’ve been on the road for a week and a half- up with the sun and on the way to Music City. 

The few hours between leaving Bonnaroo and returning are a blissful scene in slow motion. My love is staying at a cool, quirky hotel in East Nashville. I love this town and don’t know why I keep talking myself out of moving here. Holding what you got is easier but not always right.

For this moment, I am holding lightning in a bottle. We hit a Mexican grocery and load up on snacks I wouldn’t have considered otherwise. Water, coffee, wine, some beer- that’s been my beverage rotation for many years. I am borderline obsessed with the chips I like but rarely venture outside my go to brands.

Today my cart is loaded with chicken wings, orange sodas, and flavors of chips my limited Spanish is powerless to speculate as to their impact on my taste buds.

Lost in a blissful haze we head back to the hotel to catch up on the last week of time together. We are starving and these snacks are not going to get the job done. I look up places to eat lunch and find a funky, very East Nashville eatery. The chicken wings are the size of an actual wing of a bird. A man walks in with baby miniature quails he lets my love hold. It’s an odd juxtaposition, eating fowl while holding the most adorable example of it.

There is a vintage store across the street with a bar in it. We have sets to catch back on The Farm but also there’s cash to be hemorrhaged on outfits. An hour later, and several hundred dollars poorer, we are on the road back to Bonnaroo.

The author in a fabulous hat.

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I spend a lot of time alone at festivals. Some of that is by choice. I like to be able to do what I want when I want and have missed opportunities chasing someone else’s desires. There is also a lot to be said for going to a show with someone who is passionate about an act you know nothing or little about and otherwise would not have cared to see. 

My love wants to see Sean Paul. There are some scheduling conflicts for me, most notably Jon Batiste. We could do our own thing for an hour or two, but I am interested in this swell. Sean Paul is playing the This Tent and his crowd is doing the same. You know more Sean Paul songs than you think you know and they are a blast live. 

There are two non-negotiables left on the schedule- Gregory Alan Isakov and Cigarettes After Sex. The latter is a shared interest in present company. The former is one of those bucket list acts like Interpol a day earlier. No FOMO and pace thyself. There is an hour between those last two must dos. Anything else is gravy. 

Gregory Alan Isakov’s drummer is in sepia. The rest of the band in other various states of equally charming lighting. What stands out in this moment is the love being exchanged. Isakaov is the maestro of romance here tonight. Couples gazing into each others’ eyes, embracing. When people rave about the culture of Bonnaroo, this is what I think they mean. It is for sure what I mean.

My love brought stick-on googly eyes with her. She is gifting them to people as a “third eye.” We grab dinner and of course her choice is significantly better than mine. I grab some lackluster chicken tenders while she charms the pizza slingers with optical accessories- pressing these plastic eyes into their foreheads and posing for pictures. 

Cigarettes After Sex is up soon. We both need a change of clothes and a quick rest. As part of my lessons learned from last year I bought foldable rocking chairs and can’t overstate the benefits of this decision. Set up your camp to be comfortable.

Cigarettes After Sex sits draped in black and white in accordance with their well known aesthetic. She nuzzles her nose into my neck as we share drinking in one of several bands that overlay our taste. There is little in this world more blissful than being in love while sharing live music. 

Tomorrow is another big day and we just want some time together. Quick stop at Red Hot Chili Peppers, who are outstanding in this moment, then headed back to camp. Damn near perfect day.

Bonnaroo 2024 Thursday | Jason's Journal

By: Jason Earle

What a difference a year makes. When the 2024 Bonnaroo lineup was announced, I was elated. Not just because Jason Isbell, S.G. Goodman, Interpol, Gregory Alan Isakov, and so many of my favorite artists were playing, but also life for me is so much different from our first trip last year. 

Festivals of this magnitude become touchstones in life and art. For the artists, it’s a huge accomplishment to be included. For me as media covering Bonnaroo, the opportunity is an honor. 

Huge names are on the bill this year as always. Chappell Roan. Jason Isbell. Megan Thee Stallion. Post Malone. Red Hot Chili Peppers. Pretty Lights.

Bands that don’t tour as much like Interpol are there as well. I head into Bonnaroo with an open heart and mind, ready to take the lessons I learned last year and capitalize on the personal growth I have gone through in the intervening months. 

This year’s Bonnaroo is the climax to my Grounded Summer Tour, so named because I am spending almost three weeks on the road getting back to my roots. Since last year I have lost my job, found another one. Gone through the breakup of a ten year relationship, and fallen in love again. I needed to get out of town and reconnect with aspects of my personality that lay dormant for the better part of a decade. 

I am later than expected arriving at the venue. If I have one gripe with Bonnaroo it is that the arrival is difficult. Security is inconsistent, often confused about where to point you, and all too often rude. Once you are inside the venue, it is a first class experience. But, getting there can be a frustrating adventure. 

Arriving at the wrong gate is a cardinal sin. This time it is my fault. I did not properly read the email with arrival instructions- a mistake I pledge not to repeat. No one was quite sure where to send me but someone had an address. There wasn’t a good place to pull over and re-read the instructions so I quickly typed in the offered address and headed that way. 

Traffic is re-routed by Tennessee cops, who are like an ex with an alcohol problem and the short fuse to accompany it. They set unreasonable and unclear expectations then threaten harm when you inevitably fall short of the set bar. 

Pulling into my second stop on the entry tour I am met by a maze of cones, a gauntlet of pigs, and a glaring lack of signage explaining anything. By the time I realize I should be turning left I have a cop screaming and wildly gesturing in my direction. He screams at his abusive buddy who pulls in behind me equally livid, sirens blazing. There’s a confused group at the security checkpoint trying to help narrate the behavior I should be exhibiting but no one seems to know anything.

“You gettin’ pulled over. Oh wait, he gettin’ out of the car. I don’t know what to tell you.”

A red faced constable rushes up to my car window screaming admonitions. Yells, “You do that again you’ll get a ticket!” 

“Okay, man” is all I manage, still at a loss as to which statutes were perceived to be violated.

Security checkpoint number two brought even more aggression. An aloof guard shepherds me to a stocky, indignant man about ten years my junior who turns me around without any guidance as to where I should go, then threatens physical violence when I pull over to finally read the email with the care it deserves.

Perhaps all of this could have been avoided if I had just spent some more time reading the directions, and the middle school teacher in me is annoyed I did not. Still, getting to Bonnaroo could be easier. 

Navigating Bonnaroo on the other hand is pretty damn sweet once you are on the grounds. This being our second year covering the festival, I knew the lay of the land going into the weekend. My goal was to get there in time to see Medium Build who has been receiving some much due buzz of late. The rest of the day has some fun moments but no one I just can’t miss. 

The security debacle has me a little shook. I despise the police. Even seeing an officer sets off my nervous system. Plus, I’m later than normal because of an emotional day.

This Grounded Summer Tour wound through Kentucky, the land of my birth and that of my ancestors. I started Thursday in Bowling Green, where my grandmother lived for much of my childhood. After my parents and I moved to Florida, we would go back and visit Grandmama every summer. She lived in a tiny duplex that contained such wonders my only child imagination could barely comprehend. 

There was a stereo with an 8-track player and turntable. I would spend hours sitting in front of the stereo playing the albums and looking at their sleeves. Neil Diamond. Johnny Cash Live at San Quentin. Jerry Lee Lewis. Merle Haggard. We caught fireflies and kept them in jars. She made biscuits and gravy every morning and painted scenes from my favorite books.

Earlier today I stood on the road outside that unchanged dwelling as a young family peeked through the blinds in the living room where I used to sit on the floor and play Duck Hunt on Nintendo.

All good memories to be sure, but by this point an emotional day. It’s nearly 9:00 pm and I do not recognize anyone other than GWAR left on the schedule. Better to spend time setting up camp then wander the festival and see what I can discover. 

Bonnaroo’s stages have initially annoying names like “What Tent,” “Which Stage,” and “This,” “That,” and “The Other.” Once you get the hang of things, it all makes sense. “What” and “Which” are the big ones with the huge names.

The only act playing either tonight is Pretty Lights, which is an artist I just do not understand no matter how hard I try. Folks will explain how he mixes sounds and whatnot but it always just sounds like the musical manifestation of a panic attack to my ears. The smaller stages have a similarly EDM leaning bent for the most part. 

The Bonnaroovian code

Prepare Thyself

Play as a Team

Radiate Positivity

Respect the Farm

Don't Be That Person

Stay True Roo

I drag myself up to see The Heavy Heavy who sound delightful but my stomach is clamoring for sustenance. I have wanted to see the five piece British rock band and their throwback sound for a while. This is the first example of a rule I have developed for excellent festival attendance after years of experience. No FOMO. 

There is no way to see everything at a festival like Bonnaroo. It is bigger than your imagination. There are going to be points in the weekend where you have to miss a set and go rest at camp. Or, you may need to stay for the entire hour at one tent so you do not miss a band that only tours once every ten years. Accept that you are going to miss out on some things. Do not fear it.

I catch a few minutes of an act called BIGXTHAPLUG. Folks are really into it but I can’t quite put my finger on what is happening. My thoughts are starting to sound like that of an old man and it is time to head back to camp. GWAR is not until 1:00 and Roisin Murphy even later. It is only day one and best for me to have a night cap then get some sleep. Which brings me to rule number two for excellent festival attendance experience- pace thyself.

Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit do not play until the end of the weekend Sunday night. Get some rest. Drink water. Eat enough calories. Pace thyself.

Stay tuned to this website and our social media accounts for more stories from Bonnaroo 2024, including an interview with global pop stars Milky Chance!

Jason's Journal | Bonnaroo 2023 Day 2

The Marinade covered the Bonnaroo music festival in Manchester, TN. This is Jason’s Journal documenting the experience, part 2 of 4.

Day 2

Jackson

Manchester, Tennessee, is just three-ish hours from High Falls State Park. Last night has me shook. I need some coffee and a breakfast sandwich. The nearest non-Starbucks spot is in Jackson, Georgia. It is off the route but I am in no hurry at 7:00 in the morning with a slate of unknown acts playing later today. Lucy Lu’s Coffee Cafe looks to check the boxes. 

A Stranger Things-themed mural adorns the space next door. Across the street there is an escape room patterned after the popular Netflix series. Google confirms this is the town that serves as the setting for Hawkins, Indiana, in the Netflix series. 

Oh how Florida would do well to court Hollywood. My home state once served as a hub for the film industry. Now it is run by fascists who are more focused on quashing free-thought than promoting economic prosperity and creativity.

Nothing to do about politics at the moment. With breakfast sandwich and coffee helping stabilize my mood, I walk around downtown “Hawkins.” The fictional world of a beloved show and the practical realities of making it come to life merge in my imagination. 

The sky is flirting with disaster again but so far holding off from awakening The Upside Down. Strange things have characterized the trip thus far, yet it feels like we are headed in a brighter direction.

To stave off the illusion that this is all romantic, I have to confess my anxiety is at a twenty-plus-year high. To the point that I drank a small dark coffee to limit my caffeine intake and did not finish the cup. The sources of this anxiety are beginning to take shape as I get farther down the road.

Chattanooga

The majesty of Appalachia takes shape. My family is from Kentucky. I was born there and we spent my upbringing headed up this route to visit my grandmother in Bowling Green. The See Rock City and Lookout Mountain signs bring a deluge of memories. 

Twitter is a good place to turn for advice about eats and drinks and things to do. Songwriter Will Payne Harrison, the Tioga Titan himself is there to assist. 

Yellow Racket Records sits in a beautiful old building in what looks like it used to be an industrial area of Chattanooga. There is a sign on the door reminding folks to go easy on the old building. Adjacent to the register is a tattoo parlor. A fella seeking to get tatted swings the door open like a toddler chasing a dog. I’m able to turn and catch it just before the relic slams against a wall, much to the gratitude of the shopkeeper.

The selection is robust and I’m tempted to round out my Jason Isbell vinyl collection with an on sale Sirens of the Ditch, but that’ll spoil in the heat and I don’t own a CD copy of his brilliant Weathervanes. Yellow Racket has it at a reasonable price and it’s almost exactly the length of two spins from this instant classic until I get to The Farm.

The weather is following me but nothing like South Georgia has materialized. Just a bunch of clouds and threats.

One last stop at Wal-Mart nestled between the mountains. I don’t need beer and probably will not make much of a dent in it but I would rather have it than not. Plus some easy to eat fruit will be clutch. 

Big corporations juxtaposed with nature’s majesty on the way to an increasingly corporate music festival is something to process. Every chain in America is represented in this holler.

This trip is about a lot of things, the most prevalent of them being a desire to let go of things outside my control. Traffic is backed up and I’ve been rerouted by my GPS. 

The Tennessee countryside is something else. My people are all from Kentucky. I’m an Appalachian by birth. Being in this place will always send me back to a long ago life and the ghosts of my ancestors. My life went in a much different direction through no choice of my own. I often wonder how different I would be if Kentucky finished raising me instead of Florida.

Roo Arrival

Credential pickup is at a nearby school’s cafeteria. The weather won’t quit so we all have to wait. Bonnaroo understandably does not want to have more bodies than necessary on The Farm. Folks mingle in the parking lot cracking open White Claws and relaying updates about the delay. Two fraternity boys make their loud arrival and brashly hit on a trio of girls straddling the line between high school and college.

The wait is maybe a half hour and I am now headed to Bonnaroo for the first time in its twenty years. While searching for direction as to where I’m supposed to live for the next few days I spot the great songwriter Kendell Marvel walking back to his own campsite. Seems like a good sign.

No one directs my Mazda so I try to set up camp as close to the entrance as possible. My plan is thwarted when a parking attendant politely informs me that the world does not start and stop at my convenience.

I end up much deeper into the campground. The sun is threatening to go down soon. I don’t have any pressing sets to catch and just hope to get my bearings. The folks to one side are about ten years younger than me and expressing excitement over acts whose names are foreign to my ears. 

A quick glance at the schedule reveals I’m in for a late night with my camp neighbors having such tastes. To my other side is a man closer to my demographic. We are all either media, staff, or guests of artists. George Maifair is a writer and photographer (East of 8th and Mother Church Pew) and a veteran of Bonnaroo. His insight and willingness to share is already proving valuable. 

The grounds are huge. George puts it in perspective for me. I need to just spend the evening figuring out where everything is located. Catching some inspiring music will be unexpected gravy.

This is my umpteenth festival. The Marinade has covered Suwannee and Gasparilla Music Festival for nearly a decade now and before that I was a regular spectator at both. I once saw a Magnolia Fest in Live Oak that included - I shit you not - Willie Nelson, Mavis Staples, John Prine, Kris Kristofferson, Stephen Marley, and Drive-by Truckers to name a few. Big Guava festival in Tampa a while back featured The Pixies, Hozier, Ryan Adams, Run the Jewels, The Strokes, Pretty Lights, Passion Pit, and more. None of those experiences could have prepared me for the size and scope of Bonnaroo. 

Petey

Enter the roo

There are two enormous stages for the top of the bill acts. A step down from that brings venues fit for headliners at some big productions. Fleet Foxes and Charley Crockett are due on them tomorrow. I don’t think I have ever seen this many humans at one event. The numbers say I am wrong. The Daytona 500 draws way more. Hell, a University of Florida football game is more well attended. But, the 700 acres at Bonnaroo, of which I am only touching a fraction feel more crowded. Perhaps that’s due to the energy. Football and NASCAR focus attention on one spot. Here the attention and energy are chaotic. 

Petey is one of the few names I recognize. I’ve missed Molly Tuttle and Abraham Alexander. Cimafunk is going on around my bedtime. If I catch Petey’s 8:00 set, today will be a success.

Petey was the subject of my What We’re Gettin’ Down On cohost Peter Haroldson’s fourth episode offering for our Patreon-exclusive show. Turns out I knew of his presence on social media but was not familiar with the music.

A surfboard-shaped video display broadcast’s his name. He wears a tie-dyed shirt and dad hat. The four piece band leans more pop punk than I expected, which provides a hint of early 2000s nostalgia. Petey is deft at providing comic relief to bracket his otherwise often pointed social commentary. The video board broadcasting water-themed scenes including Olympic swimming apropos of seemingly nothing helps add some bizarre relief. 

It is 9:00 and I am out of gas. Just walking the grounds is a lot. I have seen as much as I can see and it is time to sleep. Tomorrow is gonna be a long one. I need to type up some thoughts and try to nail down the remainder of my schedule. Plus, Kung Fu Kenny himself Kendrick Lamar does not go on until 11:00 and his presence was the tipping point in my decision to make the trip. I try to scribble some notes from the day but sleep is here almost before my head hits my makeshift pillow.

Jason's Journal | Bonnaroo 2023 Day 1

Downtown Jackson, Georgia

The Marinade was approved to cover the Bonnaroo music festival in Manchester, TN this year. This is Jason’s Journal documenting the experience, part 1 of 4.

Georgia seems to be conspiring against me getting to Bonnaroo. Just across the Georgia line and the tornado warnings are beginning. My first attempt to find shelter is an abandoned gas station that appears to have served as a home for the unhoused. Broken windows reveal a sad menagerie of furniture. There are four of us executing this ill-fated plan.

A rest stop relocation and thirty minutes of wait time lets the weather clear enough to keep driving. High Falls State Park is home for the night. Marinade Twitter came through with the suggestion. It is a beautiful slice of North Georgia. I am the only tent camper and due to the tornadoes I’m late setting up camp.

A family moving at the pace of zombies in a horror film passes by on my way to the campground. When you live with generalized anxiety, and are experiencing a heightened bout, the innocuous can be viewed as threatening. There are maybe a dozen of them staying in a two-campground wide compound just down the row from me. As I set up camp it feels like I am on display. Members of the zombie party passing by at an unsettling, disorienting clip.

Anxiety has not left me alone of late. Its specter is constant, but usually I know how to keep the worst of it at bay. Not so in the days leading up to Bonnaroo.

Setting up camp is a breeze. I head to the Dollar General on the hill for a few last second supplies- water and toilet paper just in case. The weather has calmed but is still threatening. Fireflies dance, taking me back to childhood in Kentucky.

It is muggy and I’m beat. There is a bottle of Spanish wine in the car that would normally call my name but not tonight. I need sleep in the worst way.

My fitful rest is disrupted by a flash and loud crackling. I can hear something falling above me and cover my head for protection. The thud shakes the tent. I peek out of the half zipped tent entrance and see two zombie partiers strolling by as if nothing has happened. Deep breaths to get my bearings. The ground outside my tent is littered with splinters of the lightning struck tree towering overhead. 

This is where anxiety is such a bear. Did the zombie family have something to do with this? It’s not raining. There’s no thunder. How the fuck did lightning make its way through the pines and hit just above my tent? 

I get out to survey the damage and use the restroom. What seems like a near death experience to me goes unnoticed by the rest of the campground. Should I sleep in the car? Maybe it’s best to just break camp and get on down the road. 

Tossing and turning some more leads to a bit of rest just before daylight. Tent camping plays tricks on the mind, less so in a state park than the back country but it’s still wild. Any noise can sound like a threat, and it might just be that. 

Four hours later the sound of falling branches is repeating, this time resulting in a strike on the top of my tent. Now is the time to break camp. The sun is peeking out and I’m sick of this place.